Omo Mi (My Child) Poem by Tatyough Terungwa Thomas

They called him strong, they called him man,
before his voice, before he ran
the race of boys who chase the wind,
his innocence was left to bend.
Omo mi, the mothers cry,
not knowing why their sons don't fly
like kites they used to, free and light,
now grounded by a stolen night.
The compound gate still swings the same,
but something wears a borrowed name.
He smiles for us, he plays his part,
while thunder sits inside his heart.
Ẹ jọwọ, Nigeria, hear this sound,
not every wound sits above ground.
Some scars are carved in quiet rooms,
in trusted hands, in family rooms.
But listen close, for spring still comes,
for broken drums still beat their drums.
A boy can heal, can rise, can speak,
the strongest voice was once the weak.
So baba, iya, open eyes,
believe the tremble, not the lies
that say our sons are always fine.
Some wounds are hidden in plain sight, in silence, in the vine.